Occultatio
by Athyrium
Summary: She already knows what his true face will be. Perhaps she has known since she felt that first hint of Legilimency in the bookshop. Post-War AU.
1. Disillusioned

**A/N: **I've been reading SS/HG for years and recently decided to try to write the story I would most want to read. This is cross-posted at ao3.

EDIT: I've reposted the first three chapters of this story with some edits and a tense change that I felt fit the story better.

.

.

Chapter 1: Disillusioned

.

.

The man down the row is Disillusioned. She realizes this after the third time she attempts to look directly at his face only to have her eyes somehow slide away in disinterest.

He is tall, and his hair is an unremarkable brown. Beyond that, she can't be certain of any of his features. The Disillusionment Charm is too masterfully cast; it would be more than enough to deter the wandering eye of any curious Muggle.

But Hermione Granger is not a Muggle.

She shelves the book she has been holding and glances his way for the fourth time. The man has turned around.

Hermione studies the back of his head. Curiously, the charm doesn't object. She watches as he chooses a thick book from high on the shelf, tries to catch the title printed on the spine. Perhaps this will give her some clue as to who he is.

She already has a few ideas. The only witches and wizards who need to use Disillusionment Charms in public are the one who could be recognized. Like her. Everyday witches don't need to take Polyjuice Potion every time they leave the safety of their home.

Today, Hermione is wearing the face of the woman who sat next to her on the bus last Tuesday. The hair the woman left behind was sleek and blonde; the antithesis of Hermione Granger.

The man closes the book with a snap and replaces it on the shelf. He turns and looks suddenly, directly into her eyes.

Hermione can't tell if it's nerves or the effects of the charm which causes her to immediately look away. An echo of Legilimency probes at the border of her mind.

She feels his eyes on her as she turns the corner to the next row.

It is almost unfathomable that there is another wizard or witch in the tiny village of Dunkeld. Hermione has lived here for almost a year now without a whisper of anyone magical. Her blood sings with the prospect of another so close.

But she must tread carefully; she has heard rumors of witches and wizards being turned in to the Muggle authorities by their fellows.

Perhaps it's safer just to leave.

.

* * *

.

Hermione realizes after about two blocks that he is following her. Her hands shove themselves deeper into the pockets of her tweed jacket, feet careful as she increases her pace.

Red leaves whip into a tornado on the pavement ahead of her. She has two options: evasion or confrontation. A twisting, unfamiliar path home might do the trick, but confrontation could lead to answers, an ally. Or an enemy.

She bites her lip, dry skin cracking.

In the end curiosity wins out.

She halts in the middle of the bridge across the River Tay, turns into the cold wind that pulls at the long, pale hair that is not hers.

He stops at the end of the bridge, 100 meters from her, and watches her warily. She struggles to keep her eyes on his face; it is like looking through a particularly warped glass window. It hurts her head.

Still the man doesn't move. He watches silently, clearly gathering information. Dry leaves blow across the road between them.

Abruptly, he seems to make up his mind, and starts towards her, each step measured and careful as he nears where she stands in the middle of the bridge. He stops an arm's length away. Hermione's eyes ache with the effort of keeping them on his face.

A stab of pain arches through her temples as his Legilimency strikes her mind. She submits willingly, bravely, curiosity surging through her veins.

"Granger," he says simply, after a startlingly short amount of time in her head. He's only skimmed the surface of her mind.

The River Tay courses beneath them. The wind whips her hair in her face as she calculates, staring resolutely at his intangible, elusive face.

Then she asks, "What was the name of the house elf at Number 12 Grimmauld Place?"

He huffs in annoyance.

"I'll show you who I am, Granger. But not here."

The man strides past her in the direction they had been walking. After a beat, he turns, "Kreacher."

But Hermione is already following.

.

* * *

.

The man leads her to the cathedral ruin along the banks of the river; the trees still filled with rustling gold leaves, the gravestones jutting up from springy green grass.

In the lengthening shadows of the nave he murmurs, "_Finite Incantatem._"

She already knows what his true face would be. Perhaps she has known since she felt that first hint of Legilimency in the bookshop.

It is still a shock to see the black brows drawn over hooded eyes; the pale, narrow face.

The face of a dead man who is very much alive.

"Professor." Her voice echoes strangely in the space.

"Granger," he returns.

She drinks in the sight of his face. A face that belongs to another world, another life, long forgotten.

.

.


	2. Retrograde

.

Chapter 2: Retrograde

.

.

She is never quite sure it is him the first few times they see each other again. Sometimes he appears the way he did that first day in the bookshop, tall and sandy brown; sometimes he looks completely different.

The first time is at the deli.

Her hand hesitates over the digestives as she feels a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. She looks up to find the blonde man down the counter staring at her, blue eyes intense and piercing. Her eyes snap back to the digestives; she tries to avoid attention from strangers as a rule. Even with her multitude of disguises, one can never be too careful.

.

* * *

.

The trouble had begun shortly after the war ended. Even with Aurors darting about trying to tie up any loose ends they could through Obliviates or explanations, a critical mass of Muggles had experienced things they couldn't brush off as coincidence or bad luck.

At first it was only the Muggle-borns or half-bloods who really had anything to worry about; most pure-blood wizards and witches had minimal contact with the Muggle world.

Hermione still remembers the day that Dean Thomas wound up with three broken ribs after some of his less tolerant cousins discovered his wand. It was early days, and most Muggles weren't very adept at identifying magic, but a wand was evidence where before there had only been suspicion.

After what happened to Dean, Hermione became more careful, never performing even the most basic of spells unless she was in the safety of her own home, windows shut and curtains drawn, the words whispered in secret.

Then Diagon Alley was discovered, and the world tilted on its axis.

.

* * *

.

He's still staring. Hermione carefully avoids looking his way as she pays the shopkeeper.

It is only after she wraps her scarf around her neck and steps into the cold wind outside the deli that she realizes it could be _him_.

_Snape._

The name echoes around her brain, ringing into the dark corners where she no longer ventures.

Until now, she hasn't allowed herself to hope that their encounter by the cathedral had been real. It seems almost preposterous, a waking dream. A delusion created by her subconscious, craving connection to the magical world.

She chances a look back through the glass. Their eyes connect. He gives her a barely perceptible nod of silent knowingness.

.

* * *

.

Once she sees him at the bakery, once crossing the same bridge over the River Tay where they first met; another time at the Hermitage she is sure it is him disappearing around the corner on the path ahead. Sometimes a Disillusionment Charm gives her a hint that it's him, sometimes it's only a tug of awareness deep in her gut.

Their encounters are rare and brief; two asynchronous orbits, close enough to touch but never quite collide.

She tries not to seek him out. It's far too dangerous, she could easily be discovered. Or she could frighten him away.

Instead she lets him come to her.

.

* * *

.

For work, Hermione takes the appearance of an unwitting young woman who donated her hair to charity five years ago. She works as a receptionist at a law firm in the next town. She makes certain that she doesn't excel, doesn't stand out.

Work is thoroughly ordinary, until one Wednesday it isn't.

She is filing papers when he comes into the firm. She looks up from her work to find him waiting in front of her desk, tall and sandy brown, his bookshop self.

"I'd like to apply for a job." He is holding out a black folder.

She takes the proffered documents dazedly, eyes fixed on his face. He isn't wearing a Disillusionment Charm today.

"We haven't put an advert out..." She trails off as he turns around, walking out the door without another word.

She opens the folder. Tucked away between the pages of the fabricated CV is a scrap of paper, two lines in an instantly familiar hand.

_I require Boomslang skin. The Hermitage, Sunday at sunrise._

_._

_._


	3. Pursuit

.

.

Chapter 3: Pursuit

.

.

Hermione waits on the hill, feet growing cold. The grass is still damp from morning dew, the mist rising from the valley below tinged pink in the early morning light.

She compulsively touches the leather satchel at her side once more. The additional Boomslang skin was not easy to acquire; her habitual supplier has gone silent in the last few months.

She maintains a web of contacts that she uses to procure potions ingredients; of course, she doesn't know any of their real names. Nor do they know who she truly is. She leaves Muggle money in a specified location, and the next day Lacewing flies or Knotgrass or Fluxweed appear, tucked carefully inside a box or an envelope.

The neighbors must think she is buying drugs. Better that than the truth: she is the other that many of them so fear.

The ritual of brewing Polyjuice Potion is one of the few things that still tethers her to magic. It is the one potion that she will risk brewing, hidden away in the darkest corner of her cottage.

She lives an otherwise fully Muggle existence. It's safer that way. Simpler.

Hermione starts as he emerges from the pines, wreathed in the light from the rising sun, reaching to draw down the hood of his heavy overcoat.

She is surprised to see that he wears no disguise.

"Good morning, Professor."

"I am no longer anyone's professor, Granger," Snape replies, more weary than biting.

It is a situation with no script. She feels like a small child or a recluse, so unaccustomed to meaningful social interactions she hardly knows how to behave. It's been so long since she has spoken with someone who knows who she is, so long since she has engaged in any sort of conversation beyond everyday prattle.

It seems like an eternity later when he prompts, "The Boomslang skin, if you please."

"Yes, of course." She realizes she has been staring at him.

Hermione hands him the neatly packaged Boomslang skin, he holds something out in his other hand as he takes it: Muggle money, fastidiously folded.

"Oh no, sir. Please, just take it. I don't need the money."

His lips press together tightly, and she realizes that she's said precisely the wrong thing. She forges on, "It's only, I haven't met anyone from our world in so long. Nearly five years."

Silence meets her pronouncement.

Snape lowers his hand in surprise; black, flat eyes scanning her face. Although she has altered her appearance for the journey to the Hermitage, no spell can disguise her bone-deep exhaustion.

"I thought you were dead," she says, voice raw, "After the first time, at the cathedral, I thought I was going mad."

Snape opens his mouth as if to say something, and then shuts it abruptly, eyes hardening as he scans the clearing. Then his eyes snap to hers and she knows, suddenly. They are being watched.

He pulls up his hood and takes her hand, starting down the forest path so quickly that she barely has time to react.

.

* * *

.

Hermione follows, still pulled along by his hand, struggling to keep up with his long, purposeful strides; she resists the impulse to glance behind her.

They make their way through the silent forest, bright morning light filtering through the pines, moss soft underfoot, her heart hammers out an erratic rhythm in her chest. When they reach the road, Snape stops long enough for her to catch her breath.

"My home isn't far," he speaks softly without looking at her, lips barely moving, his gaze still fixed across the road.

Without waiting for her response, Snape leads them over the road, through a copse of trees, and into a small, tidy neighborhood. Only when they reach the second house on the left does he let go of her hand, deftly pulling out the key to unlock the front door.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see the man who is following them, stopped and contemplating them from his position in the middle of the road, 100 metres away. She stares resolutely at Snape's long, pale fingers as they fit the key in the door, refusing to turn her head and meet their pursuer's gaze.

Then the door shudders open and they are inside.

.

* * *

.

She is unsurprised to find that Snape's house is sparsely furnished and oddly empty; all of her temporary homes in the last five years have been the same.

"It doesn't seem that he overheard anything damning," Snape says as he turns to her after carefully locking the front door, "Otherwise he would have been undoubtedly more aggressive in his pursuit."

His mouth is set in a grim line.

Hermione can see the man through the window. He is still standing in the same place, now watching the house with wary eyes.

"He knows," she whispers with sudden surety, panic flaring in her chest.

"Come away from the window," Snape says tersely.

She forces herself to walk calmly, normally as she follows Snape into the kitchen, fighting the rising fear; a wholly different type of fear than the constant fear she has experienced over the last five years. That was a slow, gnawing, ache; this is a hot fire that is threatening to burst through her bones and take control of her completely.

She takes a seat at the table as he begins opening cupboards, the fear vibrating and pulsing under her skin, ready to snap.

"Drink this," Snape says shortly as he puts a pewter mug down on the table.

When Hermione eyes it suspiciously, he clarifies, "It's only tea, Granger."

The utter banality of Snape offering her tea in a situation like this is so jarring that she almost laughs.

"I've never been found out before," she remarks to herself with something close to surprise, "I've always moved on before they could become too suspicious."

He lowers himself into the seat across from her, the hard planes of his face lit by the mid-morning light that filters through the foggy kitchen window.

"I have," he says plainly, bringing the cup of tea to his thin lips, "Twice."

"What did you do?"

He considers her for a moment, dark eyes unreadable, then he answers, "I left, obviously."

Hermione contemplates this information as she sips her tea in silence and he rises from his seat to pace the room. She has lived in Dunkeld for almost a year; it has almost started to feel safe.

"Our unwelcome friend has retreated," Snape observes from the window, "Doubtless to gather reinforcements."

He turns to her, his profile backlit, his face shrouded and inscrutable, "Do you have anything you need to fetch from your home or shall we leave directly?"

.

.


	4. Dìomhair

**A/N: **Thank you all for your patience with this story. I've been busier than normal lately and this has sadly been put on the back burner, but as you can see it is still a work in progress.

I've also reposted the first three chapters with some edits and a change in tense that I felt fit the story better.

.

Chapter 4: Dìomhair

.

.

The first thing Hermione notices when they stop spinning is the damp. Her feet slam into the spongy ground and she sprawls, doll-like, onto the heather. She struggles to right herself; her clothes are almost instantly thoroughly wet.

The light is feeble, a fine mist hangs in the air, everything is golden-green. To her right the huge, dark presence of a mountain lurks behind the fog. She can hear rushing water somewhere to her left.

Snape is already on his feet, checking the contents of the rucksack they've brought along.

"Where are we?" she asks.

"Near one of the Order's old safehouses from the first war," he answers, "It will no longer be hidden, and I doubt that it will be habitable."

He hoists the rucksack over his shoulder and starts off in the opposite direction without another word. She has no choice but to follow.

The going is slow and seems to take hours. Snape walks in front, following the bank of the small river which winds its way through the barren landscape. He walks stoically but quickly, without pausing to make sure that she is keeping up.

The scenery is an unending panorama of mossy boulders and heather, the looming mountain a constant nearness.

Although they have been walking without pause, although she is cold and wet, although she has just lost her home, Hermione is alive for the first time in years. She breathes in the freezing air and it hits her lungs like an electric shock.

She feels reborn.

.

* * *

.

It is midday when they reach it.

The safehouse is a small, white cottage that stands alone at the end of an unpaved road on the treeless, gradual slope of the mountain. A rusty bicycle leans against the dry stone wall that surrounds the small, overgrown garden.

Snape performs a perfunctory_ Homenum revelio_ before pushing open the door. He turns back to face her for the first time since they Apparated and he suddenly stops, staring at her with one hand still on the doorknob. A strange expression (surprise? discomfort?) flickers across his face, but then the moment passes and he turns and disappears into the darkness of the cottage.

After a moment of hesitation, she follows.

He is slowly making his way around the sitting room, using his wand to light the oil lamps perched throughout the space. As it gradually becomes more illuminated, it is clear that nobody has stepped foot in this cottage in a very long while; everything is coated in a generous veneer of dust.

"It seems we have luck on our side," Snape says without looking at her, "After the secret-keeper died, the Order assumed this cottage had been destroyed by the Dark Lord's followers."

He seems on edge. Hermione fingers her wand in her sleeve, wonders if they shouldn't do a thorough sweep of the house before they settle in.

She pulls her wand out and makes her way through the cottage; the small, blue-and-white tiled kitchen, the rickety bathroom and claw-foot tub, and finally the neat bedroom with its tartan coverlet.

When she comes back to the sitting room Snape is standing stiffly, studying the fire which is now burning in the stove.

"Where exactly are we?" she asks, if only to announce her presence.

He considers the flames a moment longer before answering, "Dìomhair Cottage on the Isle of Skye. If memory serves, there are no other residents nearby, Muggle or otherwise. The nearest town is a considerable distance on foot."

They sink once more into a tense silence. The cottage suddenly feels much smaller, and oppressively warm.

.

* * *

.

It is not until much later, after Snape has settled himself on the narrow sofa by the stove and Hermione is evenly dusting off the tartan coverlet with her wand held aloft, that she catches her reflection in the circular mirror hung above the bed. At first she is not surprised to see the wild curls, the great dark eyes.

Then she realizes that her Polyjuice has worn off, must have worn off long ago. The startled look Snape gave her as he opened the cottage door comes back with a jolt.

Perhaps it's easier for him when he can pretend that she is a stranger.

.

.


	5. Flare

**A/N: **First of all, I want to thank you all for your thoughtful and kind reviews. It's so lovely that there are people enjoying what I am creating, even if I started this as an exercise for myself.

Secondly, thank you for your patience-I know it's been a very long time since my last update. This story is not abandoned, but I am finding less and less time to sit down and write uninterrupted recently.

.

.

Chapter 5: Flare

.

.

Hermione wakes with a start, and it takes her a moment to recall where she is. Faint light is filtering through the curtains, illuminating the small bedroom.

She takes a moment before rising to ponder her current circumstances, eyes tracing the path of dust motes suspended in the pink light.

It was with unspoken agreement last night that they had both pulled out their wands to cast a litany of protective enchantments and Muggle-Repelling Charms, but with the Wizarding world's systems in a state of collapse, they will have to call on their Muggle neighbors someday soon; they have little sustenance beyond the meager rations contained in the rucksack.

Hermione rises and pulls on her thick jumper to stave off the chill permeating the dusty bedroom.

She enters the sitting room; Snape is nowhere to be found, but there is a cheery fire crackling in the stove. He can't be far. She has a tiny, fluttering feeling in the back of her mind that he is avoiding her. They had exchanged a few forced words the previous evening, and he had seemed relieved when she finally retired to the bedroom.

The wooden floor creaks its protest under her knit socks as she crosses to the kitchen to seek out breakfast.

She is making tea when she spots him through the window, illuminated by the red-gold morning light, kneeling in the neglected garden. He methodically waves his wand and the weeds are ripped up from the earth, roots dangling as they hang suspended, before vanishing with another flick of his wand.

It is the first time she has really looked at him since that day by the cathedral.

He is wearing a dark, knit jumper. As odd as it is to see him in such casual Muggle clothing, she supposes that he doesn't own any robes anymore. None of them do.

She watches as Snape banishes another assortment of weeds with a lazy flick. He looks well, she realizes, without the aura of stringy neglect that he so often carried during her school years.

She pours herself tea and, after a moment's hesitation, pours another cup for him.

.

* * *

.

Hermione rounds the corner of the cottage with tea in hand, approaching him carefully, as if he might fly away if startled.

"Professor," she stops behind him, steam rising from the mugs, "I brought you tea."

Snape is bent over now, a handful of flat, white seeds in his palm. He does not turn around immediately, instead finishing his task and slowly removing his gardening gloves. His narrow shoulders are bony beneath the coarse knit of the jumper.

He eases himself up off of dew-damp ground and turns to face her, his face bathed in morning light. His hair is pulled back, and she realizes that she is staring at the silvery scar on his neck with an embarrassing intensity before she cuts her eyes away.

He takes the proffered cup of tea with a curt nod of thanks. For a moment it is silent as they both stand drinking their tea, their hands wrapped around the warm mugs, avoiding each other's eyes.

"Can I help?" she asks suddenly.

He is silent for so long that she begins to think that he hasn't heard her. Then, quietly, "If you must."

Their mugs balance on the dry stone wall as he shows her how to plant the courgette seeds, carefully spaced and individually pressed into the earth. Then he demonstrates the clever combination of charms which creates a greenhouse effect around the garden. It is comfortable, slipping back into the familiar roles of teacher and student.

There is no need for conversation beyond his instructions.

Afterwards, when they have retrieved their mugs and are making their way back to the front of the cottage, she asks, "How do you know so much about gardening?"

"It was my job," Snape answers simply as she opens the door, taciturn once more now that they have finished their task, "In Dunkeld."

He doesn't elaborate, mutely brushing past her to enter the cottage.

.

* * *

.

Hermione finds him standing in front of the fire, facing away from her, hands in pockets. Her eyes fix on the back of his pale neck, the knowledge of the scar across his jugular bright and clear in her mind's eye.

The fire gives a loud pop, and then is quiet. Silence blooms in the warm room, swelling huge and terrible until suddenly-

"I didn't know, Professor."

His shoulders stiffen at her abrupt outburst.

She can feel the tension that has been growing between them since their flight from Dunkeld shift and flare.

She continues, "I would have tried to save you, if I had known you were still alive."

"Would you, Granger?" he speaks softly, turning to face her. His eyes betray not a trace of emotion. "I rather thought you had more important things to worry about at the time."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she remains silent.

"Why are you here, Miss Granger?"

The question surprises her, and she peers at him wide-eyed, "You-you brought us here, sir."

"Why are you not with your parents? Or your friends?" he asks, enunciating each word clearly, as if speaking to a child.

Her teeth clench as she turns to look at the rug, the fire, anywhere but his dark eyes. Snape waits silently, watching.

"I panicked," she says baldly, "When Diagon Alley was discovered and every issue of the Daily Prophet was available for any Muggle to read..." Here she pauses, wetting her lips, eyes flicking back up to his face, "I knew I would be recognized. I left my parents in Australia and came north."

"Potter and Weasley?" Snape asks slowly, as if he fears the answer.

"I don't know," she confesses._ I left them_, echoes unsaid.

Snape is looking at her as if he has never seen her before. It is the first time their eyes have met for any real length of time since her Polyjuice wore off last night. She looks away, disgust and self-loathing bubbling up from that old self-inflicted wound.

"It would seem," Snape remarks ultimately, "That we are both in want of an ally."

.

.


	6. November

.

Chapter 6: November

.

.

October fades into a misty, wet November; gray clouds sweeping down the slope of the mountain. The days grow shorter and the wind buffets the stone walls of the small cottage through the dark nights.

Hermione rises before the sun most days and makes tea alone in the frigid kitchen before relighting the fire in the wood stove. Although a Warming Charm would be quicker, there is something about a real fire that warms the small space more completely.

Some things she continues to do the Muggle way, but she is slowly rediscovering the small, convenient charms that were once so embedded in her life. Now that she is free to use magic again, she revists them like old friends. She finds herself marveling at the most insignificant of spells.

The stillness of the early mornings, the damp November air, the calm and predictable routine; all serve as a balm to half a decade of calcified anxiety and uncertainty.

For the first time in years she feels safe, hidden away at Dìomhair. With Severus Snape.

Their tentative accord is quiet most days, but the prickly, tense quality of the air inside the cottage has eased somewhat.

Snape always wakes before her. She can't work out if he is still sleeping on the sofa, but every morning the sitting room is untouched and he is already at work.

.

* * *

.

This morning, Hermione casts an Impervius Charm on her shoes. The protective charms Snape cast on the garden keep out the cold and much of the wind, but they don't shield her from the misty drizzle which hangs in the air and transforms her hair into a nebulous halo.

The courgettes are blooming magnificently, great yellow flowers like fiery beacons in the faint morning light; it seems only yesterday she helped Snape plant the seeds.

He is not in the garden this morning; he must be working in the shed. The shed is where they've pooled their scant Potions tools; an assortment of supplies collected over the years, or salvaged from the depths of a certain beaded bag. Although he only has the means to brew a handful of simple draughts, Snape has organized their meager collection into a provisional Potions laboratory.

Hermione walks through the garden, examining and harvesting along the way. She plucks a few withered or brown leaves from stems. Most of their plants will never suffer from disease or pests thanks to Snape's clever charms, but keeping the garden neat is part of her routine.

Hermione straightens up, examining the contents of her basket. Garlic, radishes, potatoes. Sage, yarrow, thyme. She lifts her eyes to the horizon, which has lightened considerably since she began. They will have to go into town for supplies soon, perhaps even today.

.

* * *

.

Snape is bent over one of their two cauldrons, stirring. She ducks her head to avoid the hanging bundles of herbs as she comes through the door and says, "Good morning."

He hums something unintelligible, sparing a glance for the contents of her basket.

She unpacks the fresh herbs and begins to sort through them on the adjacent workbench, "How much of the thyme do you need fresh?"

"Three stalks," he says, still focused on the cauldron.

Hermione has become accustomed to this sort of behavior. Although an unsteady, fledgling rapport has grown up between them, he still avoids her gaze; hardly ever looks directly into her eyes. Only the times when they are disguised, their true faces hidden, will he genuinely look at her.

After the other herbs are cleansed and bundled to dry, she turns to go.

"Granger," he says, "I require your assistance."

He doesn't. It's a simple Pepperup Potion, he could brew it with one hand tied behind his back. But she stays.

Perhaps he is like her: glad for the company even if it is silent company, relishing the novel experience of simply coexisting without the need to hide.

.

* * *

.

Later, they make their slow way into town.

Hermione has discovered long ago that Polyjuice is most effective as a long-term, consistent disguise. It's brewing difficulty means that it must be conserved, so trips to town are best served by a rotating selection of Transfigured personas. With altered hair and facial features, it's not so difficult to blend in with the usual crush of holiday-makers. Although there have been less and less in the last five years.

Snape has only changed his nose and hair today. He looks like he could be his own brother, or at least a cousin.

The walk to and from town is a time she treasures, because it is the only time he truly talks with her. At first, they talk only of small things; their potions lab, the weather, the garden.

But the walk is a long one, and the conversation inevitably turns to the war. She tells him about how she hid her parents in Australia; how she existed, day by wretched day, as a law secretary in Dunkeld; how lonely she was for a family, a friendly face.

And though it takes some time, he answers her questions. He tells her how he survived Nagini's bite, of his long months of solitary healing. He tells her how he was so deep in hiding that he didn't even know of the wizarding world's discovery. He tells her so many things that Professor Snape would never tell Miss Granger.

She's glad he never changes his eyes.

.

* * *

.

In the evenings, when his nose is once again hooked and her hair is again wild and dark, they relapse into their quiet selves.

They sit together in the main room in the low glow of the wood stove, he on the chair, she on the sofa. He reads a Muggle novel he's gleaned from the library in town, she fiddles with the Wizarding wireless, just as she does every night.

The rain falls softly on the roof, the fire sputters and cracks, and Hermione can almost physically perceive his apathy. She is well aware that he considers the wireless to be a waste of time and energy. Snape has no interest in contact with the rest of the broken Wizarding world, which showed him so little compassion even when times were rosier.

The wireless crackles to life and Snape quietly leaves the room, but the static is the same as every night: barren, desolate, endless.

.

.


	7. A Quiet Place

.

A/N: Hello! Thank you to all of you who have left encouraging reviews during the last few months. I have been working on this chapter since January. I found myself very unmotivated with current events being what they are, but this story was never too far from my mind.

I hope you have all been staying healthy and well during these times, and have found hope in unexpected places. Happy reading, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

.

.

.

Chapter 7: A Quiet Place

.

.

Granger likes speculative fiction best, Snape has discovered. It seems curious, based on what he knows of her as a student; she never seemed to have much capacity for imagination back then. But then again, he never did know her very well in the time before.

He isn't so sure he knows her very well now.

Snape stands in the fiction section of the small library, a place he has found himself with somewhat alarming frequency as of late. Every time he is in town without her, to be exact.

The first time he had brought home a book for her, she'd been surprised. She had looked at him for a long moment before taking it from his hands. He recalls the way her eyes had flicked from the cover back up to his face, the way her fingers had tightened around it as if it was a precious thing. That moment had planted a small, hidden seed deep in his chest.

The library has a surprisingly large collection for such a small town. He has even found some Tolkien and C.S. Lewis in the stacks, something which would have been unheard of in Dunkeld. All books bearing any reference to magic had been removed from that collection; the conspicuous gaps in the shelves like missing teeth, dark and unsettling.

Selections in hand, he approaches the circulation desk. The librarian is the same every time he visits; a handsome, solemn woman approaching middle age. Her eyes linger a moment too long on his nose, his eyes.

The moment passes and she picks up his library card to examine the borrowed name on the back. Snape looks away to hide his discomposure, mentally cataloguing all of the minute changes he made to his appearance hours earlier.

"Mr. Stein," she prompts.

He turns to thank her, but instead feels the entirely surprising and disconcerting sensation of her hand on his. He looks up sharply, rebuke on his tongue, but she speaks again.

"Mr. Stein." Her voice is furtive. "Am I wrong in guessing that you come here so often in search of some peace and quiet?"

He stares at her, completely unmoored by this strange turn of events. Her eyes search his deliberately in the beat of strained silence, then she lets go of his hand with something like disappointment.

The librarian hands him the books and he snatches them to his chest, unnerved.

"This library is a quiet place," she says cryptically, eyes still probing his. "For those who need it."

Her small, sad smile follows him as he makes his escape, heart in his throat.

.

* * *

.

The mid-day bells are ringing as Snape steps out onto the street, tucking the books under his arm. The face that is not his face is placid and collected, but under the surface his own true mind whirls.

The librarian knows.

The large ever-present propaganda poster above the corner shop proclaims, "RISE UP AGAINST THE MAGIC MENACE." He gives it a cursory glance before bending to unlock the rusty bike from the lamp post.

As he makes his slow way home, Snape contemplates. The librarian knows. She knows, but her eyes had been kind. _This library is a quiet place, for those who need it._ Her strange message repeats in his head as he navigates his way down the narrow country lanes, cycling alongside crumbling dry stone walls.

How many others in the town know what they are? There had been once, a few weeks back, when he had been sure someone was following them; a stocky, curly-haired man. Ever since, they are more careful with their disguises; keeping precise records of which face they wear each time they go out.

Although they do not know precisely what will happen if they are caught, Snape reads the Muggle newspapers. He knows about the disturbing experiments performed on magical prisoners; no doubt that there are countless hidden, more gruesome truths that the headlines don't tell. Certainly Hermione Granger, a traitor to her Muggle upbringing, would warrant a special sort of treatment.

He worries for her when she is in town alone.

He tells himself that it is the worry of a teacher for his former student, a safe, distant concern. But the seed planted deep inside him shifts and cracks.

.

* * *

.

Granger is knitting by the fire when he steps in the door and shrugs off his heavy wool coat.

"Which color jumper would you like?" she asks without preamble, eyes focused on the clicking needles.

"I don't need one." He ducks into the kitchen to put away the milk and eggs, then returns to the sitting room with the novels clutched in his hand.

Granger looks up from her work to regard him with dark, serious eyes. When he had first encountered her in Dunkeld, she had been on a knife edge. After three months together at Dìomhair, she is different; calmer and more pragmatic, but somehow harder.

"I'm imbuing them with undetectable protection charms. Which color jumper would you like?"

And bossier.

"Very well," he huffs halfheartedly, folding himself into the tartan airchair across from her and depositing the library books on the side table. "Gray."

She smiles to herself and returns to her work, and he finds himself strangely reluctant to tell her about his encounter at the library today. Her fingers are quick and graceful as they maneuver the long needles, the fire murmuring warmly from the stove. This domestic scene is at once so foreign and so familiar; her untamed hair and her narrow wrists belong simultaneously to Miss Granger, vexing former student, and to Granger, capable ally.

She looks up and he realizes he has been staring at her hands.

"It's been a few years, but I've had quite a lot of practice," she explains, mistaking his fascination for scrutiny, "Back in third year, I used to knit hats to free the Hogwarts house elves."

He recovers quickly; clears his throat and reaches for a book. "A very Granger hobby." The comment somehow comes out sharper than he intended.

"I used to think I would do well as an activist for magical creatures' rights. I've always wanted to use my time changing the world for the better." Her voice is quiet. "And yet here I am, hiding away."

This has become a common theme over the past few weeks. She is restless. Snape fears what she will do if she finally hears a sign of life on the other end of the Wizarding Wireless.

"How do you imagine you could possibly change our current situation for the better?" he sneers. Better to show disdain than his creeping trepidation that he will come home one day to find she has gone, leaving the cottage empty and cold.

Granger ignores him, carefully puts her knitting aside, hands controlled and deliberate. She arranges herself on the sofa and finally looks up to meet his eyes.

"Your face," she prompts calmly.

Snape knows a moment of confusion before he realizes that his disguise from town is still in place. Silently he cancels the charm, lips thinning and nose lengthening as his angular features assert themselves once more.

There is a curious moment, afterwards, where it almost seems as if she is using Legilimency, her eyes knowing and sharp as they peer into his. His mouth goes oddly dry as the moment lengthens and twists, until he can't endure another second of her scrutiny and he looks away, casting about for something, anything to cling to to regain his sense of slipping control.

His hands land on the library book at his side and he thrusts it at her wildly. Granger takes it, her hand brushing his. She doesn't pull away and he feels himself tremble, the seed inside sending up a hopeful green shoot, climbing towards the light.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and he has the courage to look up at her once more as she opens the book.

Her eyebrows draw together as she reaches inside the front cover and draws out an white envelope, "_Mr. Stein_" spelled out in curving script on the seal.

.

.


End file.
